


These Old Bones

by Destina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Deserves to be Happy (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Deserves to be Happy, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Jack wants his family to be happy, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, heaven's not all it's cracked up to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: After a lifetime of making bad and desperate deals, this is the last (and most satisfying) of all his bargains: at the end of every hunt, Dean comes home to Cas.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 147





	These Old Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Killa for reading this over.

Coming home is the best part of any hunt. It didn’t start out that way, years ago; for Dean, going back to the temporary places they holed up in over the years was a means to an end. Have a beer, eat some BBQ, maybe bring back a girl (or clear out so Sammy could get some, for a change). Do some research and hit the hay. Then they found the bunker, and Dean could see the pleasures of a stable home base. His own mattress, his own space. Something he’d always wanted, but never dreamed he could have. 

Still, there were missing pieces. It was never just theirs; people tromped through their space regularly, both invited and not, and Cas never really shared it with them. It left Dean with a yearning he couldn’t satisfy. 

Now, things are different. He has a little place of his own, and no one else comes into it. No one that’s not invited, at least. 

The moment Dean’s through the front door, the weight of the world drops from his shoulders. He sets his package down on the carved oak table beside the door – something Cas brought home from his travels – and starts to sling his keys. It’s an old habit, that one; the motion as natural to his arm as breathing is to the body. No keys to sling, these days. 

“You here?” he calls out into the empty air. Sunshine streams through the front windows, illuminating the cozy grey couch, the blazing fireplace with Cas’s shoes beside it, and the green and grey throw Cas loves to tuck in around his bare feet. Snow is melting on the front stoop, but inside it’s warm and inviting, and Dean sighs with the pleasure of it. 

“In the kitchen,” Cas calls. Dean makes his way to the back of the small house, and finds Cas sitting at the table, staring out at the garden. Nothing’s blooming in the snow, but sometimes Cas stares at the dirt like he can see flowers growing, twining invisibly around each other in their search for light and air. “There’s coffee,” Cas says, smiling at him, and the smile always wrenches Dean’s heart. How lucky he is – how lucky they are, to have this. 

“There’s also beer,” he says. Coffee can wait; he drapes his arms around Cas’s shoulders and leans forward to hold him, press his lips to the soft skin under his ear and delight in the shiver it always brings to Cas’s skin. “Brought a six-pack from the place you liked so much in Deadwood.”

“I think you mean, the place _you_ liked so much.” Cas turns his head and their lips meet; Dean takes his time saying hello. Even after so many years, it still feels new, this glorious, swooping sensation every time they kiss. Dean’s addicted. He slides his hand into Cas’s messy hair and gently pulls him closer for more of those kisses. 

“Details,” he says softly, so Cas will smile into his kisses, which is better even than winter sunshine. 

“There’s also soup,” Cas says, “because I thought you might be tired.” 

“You said it.” With a sigh, Dean drops into the chair beside Cas, then winces. Bobby used to talk about his old bones, but Dean hadn’t reached that stage of life where it felt true more days than not, back then. Sure, he’d always had his aches and pains, but when he was young, they’d healed up pretty well. 

He loves it, though. Loves the pampering he’s going to get from Cas, loves their soft couch and their big bed, and what they’ll get up to later, in that bed. He would have sacrificed a lot for this. More than he already has, even, now that he knows how good it can be. 

“So how was the hunt?” Cas is already pulling down one of the big blue ceramic bowls from the cupboard. He sets it beside the stove and turns on the burner under the griddle; there’s bread and butter and thick cheddar cheese on the counter, waiting to be made into a delicious grilled cheese sandwich. Dean’s mouth waters; when he’s away, he forgets how enjoyable food can be. 

He sits back in the chair, ignoring the sudden twinges and pops of his spine as it settles into its true age, and admires the view. Cas’s back beneath the tight blue T-shirt is slender but muscled, and now that the trenchcoat isn’t in the way all the time, Dean can give him the appreciation he deserves. 

“Dean?” Cas casts a knowing look over his left shoulder, and Dean grins. Busted. 

“The intel was right. Found Ashariel exactly where we expected him to be. Wasn’t much of a fight, to be honest.” 

“We’ll have to see if we can find something more challenging for you next time.” Cas’s tone is entirely too wry as he fills the bowl with steaming soup and flips the sandwich on the griddle; the smell of melting butter and cheese spreads across the kitchen, and Dean closes his eyes to enjoy it. 

“Guess that depends on what comes up.” 

Cas sets the plate and bowl in front of him, and then goes back to the stove for a smaller bowl and two spoons. They eat in comfortable silence until the bowls are empty and the grilled cheese devoured, and then Dean provides the details he knows Cas is interested in – where Ashariel was hiding, what wards he’d been using to stay out of sight, and whether Dean was injured. Cas is never subtle in the way his eyes flash over Dean, and he’s never hesitant to take hold of Dean, to brush his fingertips over Dean’s skin and repair damage, even though Dean is perfectly capable of tending to that himself. 

Some things, though, Cas leaves alone. The scars from before are reminders of his well-lived life, every one the signpost of a hard-earned victory. And his old bones bear his burdens well enough, even with the joints between them wearing down and full of pain. He welcomes the agony. 

“Checked in on the nephew, too,” Dean says, as he looks wistfully at his empty plate. “He’s okay. And his girls. All good.” 

“Sam will be glad to hear it, I’m sure.” Cas rests his hand over Dean’s; his thumb travels across Dean’s palm, open and defenseless, no weapon held there to stop this most welcome of incursions. Anything else Dean was planning to say is lost to the sensation of Cas’s gentle touch, and the silver threads of grace winding their way into Dean’s body. 

“What about you?” Dean sprawls in his chair, careful not to move his hand even a millimeter. 

“I spent much time in the garden today.” Cas smiles. “Clearing space for what’s coming next. Laying out the framework.”

“I know it’ll be beautiful,” Dean says softly. He lifts Cas’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles; this is all he’s ever wanted for Cas, to be an agent of creation, and away from the ugliness Dean has always inhabited – hell, that he’s craved. He knows what he’s good at. What he loves. 

“Time will tell.” Cas is watching him, and the blue of his eyes is the beacon that draws Dean out into the deeper waters. He stands up and Cas stands with him, moves into Cas’s space and Cas presses close, and when Dean kisses Cas it’s like a shower of starlight on the clearest night, shining so bright and beautiful it could burn. 

“I should—“ Dean whispers, thinking of getting clean, of standing in a hot shower, but Cas’s hands are tugging at his shirt, revealing skin for him to touch. 

“I want you now,” Cas says, low, and the shiver of desire passing across Dean’s body can’t be denied. 

He’s a little too old now for kitchen floors and tables, so they take it to the bedroom, and Dean strips out of his shirts and jeans in record time, boots thrown in the corner, even as Cas yanks his T-shirt over his head and flicks open his belt buckle. He takes his time undoing the fly of his jeans, which makes Dean grin and reach for him, hands on Cas’s bare hips. 

Cas is pale against the inky-blue bedspread, so Dean covers him, makes sure he’s warm and comfortable, and takes his time. Every inch of him is begging to be touched, so Dean obliges, sees goosebumps rise beneath his fingertips and warms them with soft kisses. Cas watches him through half-closed eyes, his cock hard and leaking, his hands smoothing over Dean’s shoulders, as Dean takes him into his mouth. 

This is the part he loves the best. Castiel gasps and cries out, his back arched off the bed as his hips strain toward Dean. Dean slides his arms under Cas’s legs and spreads them apart; he knees up on the bed and goes to town, spit-slick and fast, until Cas shudders and breathes out his name and comes, salt-sweet and real in Dean’s mouth, against his waiting tongue. 

He swallows and sits back, takes in the absolute debauchery of his angel sprawled out on the bed, glistening and spent. “Castiel,” Dean says, and there’s a rumble of power in using the name, overlaid with the bone-deep sureness that it’s his alone to say with love. 

Cas moves in a blur, flipping Dean to his back and reaching to the bedside for the slick. He crouches over Dean, who is hard and so ready for him. Sometimes it’s Cas inside Dean, deep and slow, but sometimes it’s this – Cas taking him in, greedy for him, until he’s seated on Dean’s thighs, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. 

It’s like flying, or -- it’s like being beneath the sun as his wings come apart, and then relishing the fall. It’s both, and neither, as Dean spreads his fingers over Cas’s thighs and Cas begins to move, taking Dean deep, deeper, joining them together. Cas stills, and then leans down to kiss him, whispering to him in Enochian – a word Dean understands now, and never tires of hearing. _Beloved._

Beyond words, there’s only Cas’s mouth on his, taking gently, and Dean’s body surrenders to its pleasure while he splays his hands across the small of Cas’s back, holding him close. Always. 

When they separate, Dean’s eyes flutter closed, and he gropes for Cas’s hand; Cas reaches back immediately, and they lace their fingers together between them on the bed. Between one breath, and the next, Dean is fast asleep. 

He wakes sometime in the early morning hours to find Cas curled around him, drooling against Dean’s shoulder, and it makes him smile into the pillow. The moment passes, and the next time he wakes, it’s morning, and Cas is laying on his stomach, head on his own pillow, watching Dean while waiting for him to wake. 

“Still creepy,” Dean informs him, though it’s not at all, and to prove it, he turns on his side and inches forward to kiss Cas, morning breath and all. 

“You never really minded it,” Cas murmurs, “or I would have stopped entirely many years ago.” 

“Mind-reading, so helpful.” They lay together, faces an inch apart, for a moment, and then Dean scoots back to see him better. There’s a little bit of grey at Cas’s temples now, threaded through his tousled hair. Dean lifts a hand to rub at that grey, push it away from Cas’s face. 

“You too.” Cas reciprocates by touching Dean’s temples, which he knows are salt-and-pepper silver. 

“It was a good bargain,” Dean says quietly. 

Cas swallows, and nods, and the banked blue fire in his eyes is a reminder of what they both are, and are not. 

“There’s another job,” Cas says, and almost as soon as he says it, Dean can feel the itch across his shoulder blades, the impatience of the other half of his nature to get on with it. “This time I think I should go with you.” 

“Cas, no.” Dean sits up, the sheet falling to the side. “That’s my work to do now. Yours is—“

“Mine is to be wherever I’m needed, working at purpose. And you, Dean Winchester, are mine to protect, as I see fit.”

It’s so familiar, and yet it was so rarely spoken aloud, when it was still true; even so, it wrenches something inside Dean’s heart. “You know I don’t need it anymore,” he answers. 

“You are as vulnerable as you ever were. As I ever was.” Cas’s face is settling into that familiar, stubborn look, and Dean knows there’s going to be an epic argument if he pushes back against this. “I’m going with you.” 

Dean knows when he’s beaten. So he nods, and leans in for one more kiss. Cas takes Dean’s face in his hands, cradles it like something precious; pours love into him, as he always has – body, breath and grace always turned toward Dean, even when Dean was too fucking stupid to see it for what it was. 

“I thought we’d have more time, this time.” Dean stands up and finds a clean suit in the closet to toss on the bed. 

“We’ll make up for it the next time we’re home.” 

“The next time,” Dean echoes. Time, he knows, is variable -- except for here. 

They shower separately, though Dean does try to tug Cas in with him, provoking a shout of laughter that makes him grin for the rest of his shower. Then they dress, and all the while, the itch across Dean’s back grows stronger. He’s learned that this is how he’ll know where to be, when they go. 

It was a steep learning curve, but he’s just about mastered it, with Cas’s help. 

“What about the garden?” he asks, over coffee and toast. 

“It’s easy to return to where I’ve left off.” Cas turns to look out the window, and Dean closes his eyes to see what Cas sees – what he really sees: the infinite shapes of Heaven, unfolding like puzzle boxes in the cosmic realm. It still makes him hurt to look directly at it, when he’s in this mortal place. Not like Cas, who has almost always had the benefit of grace, and never had to straddle two worlds, two states of being. At least, not until he entered into this agreement. 

“Do you regret it?” Dean asks suddenly, because the far-way look on Castiel’s face is too much to bear. Maybe he’d rather be in Heaven, instead of making a home on Earth. Dean knows what he asked was selfish, and maybe the cost for Cas has become too high. 

“Do I—“ Cas turns a startled face to him. “I will never regret choosing you, Dean. Choosing this.” 

Dean nods, and swallows, and tries to believe. Here, in this small house, in this small place, with all of Heaven’s power surrounding it, where Dean’s body remembers how to be human, and his soul is constrained in its power. Here, where he ages and his old bones creak, where he can breathe and love and desire, and have Castiel in his arms. Here where they stood together by the fire and agreed Cas would help Jack rebuild Heaven, and Dean would do the work Jack had for him – what he’s best at, because Heaven is a pale remnant of life, built of echoes, and Dean hates it. Cas is safe, and Dean is useful, and that’s enough for him. 

_Are you certain?_ Jack had said, with that same youthful confusion he’d always shown when confronted with a human paradox. _Heaven was remade so you would feel welcome there, Dean. So all would feel welcome._

 _I want to know what it’s like,_ Dean had answered. _To grow old. To have a home with Cas that’s real._

_All right,_ Jack had agreed, and it was done; one tiny corner of South Dakota, a house, a place where time only moved when Dean was present, and where his body recognized the weight of his accumulated human years. _And when those years become too numerous to permit your mortal form to continue?_

 _Then we’ll come back home_ , Dean answered. _Together._

“Our home in Heaven is already built,” Cas says, because he’s already so far inside Dean’s soul, he can see his every thought. “It’s made of light, Dean, and it’s beautiful. And Sam will be nearby.” 

Dean lifts his head and looks around _this_ home, where the kitchen always smells of sage and blueberries, and tomato soup; where Cas can see his garden, and plan the grids of Heaven. There are fresh towels in the closet, and a bed upstairs where he first took Castiel apart, saw him in all his forms as he was meant to be seen, and allowed Cas to know his soul in return. 

It’s never mattered much to him where home is – only that those he loves are there. But this place…this is special. 

“I just want time to rest.” He takes a deep breath, to feel the burn in his lungs and the thumping of his aging heart. “To—to—“ 

“I know.” Cas stands beside his chair, and Dean rests his head against Castiel’s belly, eyes closed. “And I will ensure you have it. This human body of yours that you’re so attached to can withstand many more years of this strange existence, segmented into fractions of years.” 

“You think I’m crazy.” 

“I think you’re Dean Winchester, who never had much to call his own, aside from a car that was an extension of your soul, and the unconditional love of your brother. But I am yours,” Cas says. “And this is our home.” 

Dean nods, and lets Cas wrap his arms around his shoulders; he breathes in the soft cedary scent of Cas’s skin, and then he gathers himself and stands. All that he is, the creaks and the pains, the scars and the miles, will fall away until he’s back again, but that has only made him want this all the more. 

“We should go,” he says. Cas nods. “How many this time?”

“Eleven rogue angels clustered together near Albany, New York. They've attempted to break down the protections safeguarding Heaven and disrupt Jack's changes there. We must persuade them to see reason, or stop them.” 

“Can do.” Dean looks wistfully at the six-pack of beer that he never got to break open. It'll be waiting, for their return home. Then he stands a little taller and opens the door. 

He and Cas step together off the porch, and the ache of humanity recedes; he sheds the limitations of mortal life as easily as the sun melts snow. The itch between his shoulder blades becomes another part of his body, under his control – he reaches for it with a thought and flicks his wings into existence, unfurling them like a long lazy stretch under the cold winter sky. An instant later Cas is ready, his own wings shifting between planes with joyful anticipation. 

They stand side by side a moment more with their faces tilted to the sky, wings touching, soul and grace aligned in purpose. It’s the best bargain Dean has ever made; having this makes up for a lifetime of bad deals born of desperation. 

He stretches his wings toward the sun. There’s work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I wonder sometimes, can there be too many fix-its? Are people tired of reading them yet? I'm not tired of reading (or writing) them yet, so maybe not. I'll get it out of my system eventually. ♥


End file.
